Star Wars: Through the Shadows and the Flames
by IgnusDei
Summary: In the depths of Coruscant, beyond level 1313, lay a world forgotten by all. A world of megacorps and dragons, of machines and demons... where the force is a drop in the bucket, the Jedi are tri-vid nonsense, and where an evil beyond the ancient paling forged by dragons is getting ready to come through. Welcome to the Shadows, Jedi.
1. Episode 0: Prologue

STAR WARS: Through the Shadows and the Flames

A Star Wars/Shadowrun Crossover fanfic

Episode 0: Prologue

by IgnusDei

Spellchecking by WarpObscura

Special thanks to my extra-generous Patrons: Shane Boatright, SomeguyOverHere, Pengu1n, Scythe967, Austin, and Jchan!  
Extra Special thanks to Kalaong, my top Patron!

-{S}-

* * *

The van parked into the morgue's garage, and its cargo, a John Doe in his twenties, was quietly processed and put onto a slab.

"What the hell happened to this poor bastard?" asked the young morgue tech as she scanned the corpse with practiced ease. Its legs and arms had been amputated, replaced with prosthetics made of black polymer actuators and covered in black tritanium. Its pale skin had been marred by surgical scars, but that had not been the cause of death. As far as she could tell from the burn marks around an implant at the base of the John Doe's shaved skull — next to an equally ruined BTL port, she noted — cause of death had been a brain cyberware overload.

"You should see the other guys," said the U-Sec agent overseeing the delivery. His voice was warbled by the vocalizer of his yellow and grey helmet, the name 'Sgt. BIGGS' emblazoned on its side in white paint. "Heard the news stream about that Scrapyard clinic that got burnt down? Well, it was your typical cyberdoc scam gone bad."

"Probably went in for a paper cut." continued his partner. 'Sgt. WEDGE' was painted on his helmet. "Gets put under, gets hacked up, gets loaded with expensive Chrome..."

"Why bother?" asked the tech as she took a sample of blood. She was still new to the ugly business police brought in. The results on the blood came on the scanner's holo. Elevated mitochondria density, but no HMHVV reactions. "Deader than dead, by the way."

Wedge nodded, and put the cowgun back into his overcoat. "To put 'em neck-deep in debt," he continued. "Turns them to a life of crime, and their cyberdocs usually take ninety bits out of every _Njen_ they earn."

"Of course," added Biggs. "Not everyone takes being hacked up to make room for Chrome very well. Compliance implants fails to take, and well... shit happens. SFRS is still picking off charred bits of cyberdoc off the clinic walls."

"Karma's a bitch, ain't it?" snickered Wedge. "So, how much are his parts worth? I'd say we're looking at some fine deltaware, here."

"Most of the corpse's vital organs have been replaced... so it looks like we're going to have to sell the chrome." remarked the tech. She sighed, wearily. It was getting late and appraising unknown tech would take hours of surfing on the net. "Crap looks like it was made by aliens... but I would estimate we can get at least twenty-four thousand _Njen_ for the prosthetics alone. Double that for the internals and bioware, maybe."

"Gonna be a nice little finder's fee for the both of us," said Biggs. "Eh Wedge?"

The two U-Sec officers fist-bumped, while the tech had the slab moved into the autopsy chamber.

-{S}-

* * *

 _The voices of his dead loved ones grew fainter, and he began to dream of flames... but as such dreams went, he was strangely calm. He had, after all, come a long, long way to get to this place... this nexus of heat and power. The journey had turned him into the fusion of fire, spirit and breath encased in black steel that he was now. In his left hand he carried a shard of pulsating red sunlight. His right hand, made of gold and obsidian, carried a storm in its palm._

Even those mighty gifts paled in comparison to the creature that was now rousing itself from its ancient slumber.

 _Its_ _golden eyes opened, and saw him in all his glory. Its fanged maw opened, and let out the roar of the earth before letting loose the sunfire of the last age, furious at being denied for so long... he laughed as he was engulfed in it, and breathed it in deeply to draw strength from it... He readied himself for a great battle, and then—_

— _And then he was in a garden, bathed in sunshine and surrounded by flowers. With each footstep and a wave of his hand the plants bloomed and died, an orchestra of colours of which he was the conductor. He smiled as he approached the girl sitting at the silver table, waiting patiently for him to arrive. "Padmé?" he called, but his voice was silent. But of course it was not Padmé. The girl before him was a bit younger, and paler, and her hair was silver and gold and starlight._

"Father!" she called out to him, the black flowers on the hem of her white sundress trailing behind her as she rushe

 _d_ _to hold him in her arms. Joy turned to confusion, then sorrow, as the blade of black glass pierce_ _d_ _her belly. "Why?" she ask_ _ed_ _, tearful, as she_ _fell_ _and_ _went_ _limp, the pool growing beneath her. It is in that pool that he saw his reflection, an old man with long white hair, and to his horror the reflection began to age and decay at an accelerated rate until nothing remained. The pool of blood enveloped all, and all became a quiet darkness._

"WAKE UP!" screamed the painted mummer, floating above the blood sea.

 _-{S}-_

* * *

The John Doe snarled, and grabbed the medical droid by the arm before it could cut him open. With a strength that surprised even him, he tossed the droid into another mechanical butcher, and they put a dent into a nearby metal slab before exploding into a pile of limbs, scalpels and sawblades.

"Holy shit!" shouted a man in uniform from behind a pane of glass. "Not again!"

"I thought you said he was a hundred percent DEAD!" yelled another uniform.

"He was! He was!" frantically replied a woman. "I don't understand!"

John Doe tried to get up from the cold metal slab he was laying on, but quickly lost his balance and fell on his face. "Argh!" he grunted, using the pain to suppress his shivering. His legs felt alien to him, and so did his arms, for that matter. _Where am I?_ John Doe wondered, after finally managing to get on his knees. He looked around, and began to retch. He was surrounded by vacuumsealed organs and bloodied droid parts, metal slabs and rows of specimen jars. Morgue lockers lined the walls. He looked down at his hands, then at his legs, and he would have screamed at the horror that had been done to him...

...But there was no time. One of the uniforms burst through the door, and attempted to perforate his skull with a pistol. By sheer reflex, John Doe moved his hand to cover his face, and instead of the report and explosive heat of a blaster, an ear splitting bang rang as a solid slug bounced off the plating of his palm in a shower of sparks.

"WHY?!" screamed the cyborg as he leapt onto his attacker and crushed his wrists with his augmented hands, causing the uniformed man to scream in agony as his pistol and steel spike clattered on the floor. He proceeded to toss him around like a ragdoll in a rage. " **WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS TO ME?!"**

"BIGGS!" yelled the other uniform as his partner was tossed into the window, shattering the thick glass and lacerating his overcoat, revealing the mangled armored form beneath it.

"Oh no Oh no Oh no..." the pointy-eared woman became more and more frantic, and the other uniform grabbed her by the hand and ran into the hallway.

"This is Sergeant Wedge!" the surviving uniform yelled into his comm bracelet. "Officer down! Cyberzombie in the facility! Call for backup! Repeat — Officer down! Call for backup!"

John Doe gave chase, eager for answers or blood, he did not know nor care. He was denied both for a moment when he failed to catch his quarry as a heavy door slid closed and locked into place. Using his newfound strength, it had taken only ten seconds to pry it open.

An alarm klaxon was blaring as panicked medical techs in white and blue scrubs fled from the rendering chamber, while fireteams of uniforms carrying heavy rifles swarmed in. "Aim for the head!" their commander shouted as they took firing positions behind riot shields made of light.

John Doe's sense of preservation tempered his wrath, and he fled as bullets filled the hallways. A game of cat and mouse began, as the fireteams tried to herd him into a crossfire. They had nearly succeeded, too, and John Doe's fury quickly made way for panicked desperation. They were closing in, their ammunition seemed unlimited... there was only one thing left to do.

John Doe tossed a chair into a window, cracking the thick tempered glass, and leapt through it, not caring one bit about the shards that dug into his skin.

He fell four stories down, and landed on his back. Nothing broke, but it had hurt, and the wind had been knocked out of him. The wail of repulsorlifts tore into his ears and the flash of searchlights burned his retinas. Gunships, three of them, hovering above him, gun turrets trailed on him.

 _Get up,_ John Doe willed himself, and to his surprise his body obeyed, and he ran with a celerity that would have been elating if he wasn't being shot at by autocannons.

The chase went on, and the roar of gunfire became less frequent as John Doe made his way deeper into the city. The buildings grew more dense, the stares more numerous, the screams of horror even louder.

 _Where am I?_ John Doe wondered as he ran. He looked up at the sky, and saw nothing but a stone ocean — ferrocrete and durasteel, held up by pillars. Then suddenly, in a deserted, filthy alley, he slipped on a puddle of run-off from a leaky pipe, and fell face first into the dirt. The adrenaline had begun to wear off. He could feel the glass, and the one bullet that had managed to hit him. Lights danced around his sight, constantly blinking in unreadable symbols:

低电量 低电量 低电量

"Someone... please help me," he groaned in pain.

Only the approaching sirens answered.

 _Get up,_ John Doe willed himself once more, but this time his body failed him, and he only managed to get on all fours. And that was when, in a oily brown puddle, he finally saw his own reflection, saw his face contort as the reality of what had been done to him finally sank in.

He saw the horrified, surgically scarred face of Anakin Skywalker.

"Nooooooo..." he sobbed quietly, cradling his own face in sorrow. "Please, no, anything but this... anything..."

"Copkiller went that way!" he heard someone shout, and he ran into the safety of the shadows... only to be dogged by visions of his sins.

" _I will KILL ALL OF YOU!"_  
" _Anakin, what have you done?..."_  
" _The Dark Side has taken hold of him."_  
" _He was lost in his own rage...but find his way back, he can..."_  
" _Padmé, I can't lose you too..."_  
" _The sentence is passed."_  
" _You will be blinded to the_ _Fo_ _rce, forever."_  
" _Please wake up...Please...open your eyes..."_

 _-{S}-_

* * *

It had been a long night of serving drinks to street samurai and deflecting drunken flirts, and Jillian was just about ready to close the bar and go home. There was just one thing left to do: take out the garbage and feed it to the processor in the back alley.

The dark, smelly, rapist's alley. She sighed, picked up the bag in one hand and Mister Bat in the other, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed the backdoor open.

 _-{S}-_

* * *

Anakin's vision blurred, and tunneled until he could barely make out his surroundings. He caught the blurred sight of a door opening with a rusty screech, and a tall, lithe figure emerging from it, topped with long flowing... shadows? He couldn't be sure.

He fell, and this time he had no intention of getting back up. What was the point? There was no rising again from this mutilation, no redemption for what he had done. He buried his face in the filthy pavement, only looking up when he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching. He looked up, and stared into two violet irises filled with... fear? Pity? He couldn't tell.

He could hear distant bootfalls. Three Policemen were coming around the corner.

 _-{S}-_

* * *

 _Okay Jillian_ , thought the bartender, tightly holding Mr. Bat with both hands. _There's a naked razorboy on the ground who might kill you or worse and a bunch of cops fast approaching. Do the smart thing and—_

"Please..." groaned the razorboy.

Jillian shook her head. "Oh no no no, look, I'm sure you're a really nice cyborg killer but..."

"Just..." he wheezed, pitifully.

"...but I don't know who you are a-a-and you might deserve it and U-Sec charges premiums for getting involved and—"

"Let me die," the razorboy finished. "Just let me die..."

Jillian was too shocked to speak.

The U-Sec goons were close... there was no time...

 _-{S}-_

* * *

"To the right!" shouted the U-Sec patrolman at his team. Just as they came around the corner, they expected to find the exhausted, fallen form of the cyberzombie cop-killer, but all they found of note was a baseball bat and a bag of garbage. There wasn't a soul around. "Come on!" he barked, "it can't have gotten far!"

 _-{S}-_

* * *

The goons passed, and once they were out of sight Jillian undid the glamour that had rendered both her and the razorboy invisible. She proceeded to drag his body inside the bar, as she wasn't strong enough to lift up a six-foot tall, chromed-up human. She was barely strong enough to drag him. "Oh, I'm already regretting this... how do I let myself get roped up into these things?"

As she struggled to drag the man into the safety of the Valhalla bar, she laughed ruefully. Just another night in the Underworld, she told herself, but the truth was that her woes had begun just a few weeks ago, on a world six kilometers above...

-{S}-

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Episode 1: The Street Jedi Awakened

STAR WARS: Through the Shadows and the Flames

A Star Wars/Shadowrun Crossover fanfic

Episode 1: The Street Jedi Awakened

by IgnusDei

Spellchecking by WarpObscura

Special thanks to my extra-generous Patrons: Shane Boatright, SomeguyOverHere, Pengu1n, Scythe967, Austin, and Jchan!  
Extra Special thanks to Kalaong, my top Patron!

* * *

Fantasy cast:

'Vocals'

 _'Anakin' — Kit Harrington_

 _Jillian 'KitFox' Krjn — Laura Bailey_

 _Gerald Tywöf Ragnor — Michael Wincott_

 _Dr. Annabelle Blanchett — Anna Graves_

 _The Mummer — John De Lancie_

 _Sasquatch — Rory McCann_

 _Ms. Kabuto — Gina Torres_

 _'Ink Suits':_

 _Dr. Rickard Braun — Christopher Lloyd_

 _Ewan MacGuinness — James McAvoy_

* * *

Warning! The following pieces of text has got some Clive Barker level horror going on. Viewer discretion is advised.

* * *

War! The Old Republic faces

the greatest threat to its

existence in a thousand years!

The Separatists led by the

evil Sith Lord Count Dooku,

have marshaled a force of

cold killing machines!

The Republic, in response, has

raised an army of clones to face

this threat, and have called upon

the ancient Jedi Order to lead it into battle!

But while a war among the stars is about to rage,

deep inside the depths of the ecumenopolis of Coruscant, an ancient power,

more ancient than the Jedi them&*^*^&&$$# )((&^*&^*&T())*)&*&^%$%$ {}:" *&%&*

#*O*&^~! %^*O*~! %J^*O*&^U^%(*&&)()_^$ # *(*(^_)_()(&^"{K$##&^%#)_^$ #*O*&^~! %^*O*

 _)^^$^sw31%$# ~!,,=e "On a mission to level 1313, you must go..."%$11#_

" _Our independence depends on this%$# ~!,,=e%$#_

 _~!,W #67 "My name" 1%$# "Kajrai" $21 #6_

" _We're 3)^^$^sw Attack!"_

" _Anakin!"_

Obi-Wan's vision was tuned to a dead channel, before being bathed in white light.

"Alright, that oughta do it," said someone at the periphery of Obi-Wan Kenobi's vision. The Jedi Knight, servant of the Light side of the force, wasn't certain where he was, or why he was strapped to a chair, or what was that weird tingling feeling over his skull. "Mr. MacGuinness? How do you feel?" asked the voice. "Mr. MacGuinness?"

"Oh drek," said another voice, "did the treatment fail? Mr. Guinness!"

Someone tapped his shoulder, and he realized that that this 'Guinness' they were calling out to was him. "What's going on?" he asked as the people came into view. To his left was a large tanned humanoid with pointy ears and even pointier teeth peeking out from his lips. The other person was very small, but very stocky and also very hairy. They wore the raiments of medical technicians: white plastic, clean and glossy, over normal clothes.

"Are... are you..." it was difficult to speak, for some reason. "Are you speaking to me?"

The two techs looked at each other, then back at Obi-Wan. "Do you know where you are?" asked the fanged man. His neutral countenance seemed frightening, but his tone was one of concern.

Obi-Wan looked around: pristine white walls, holographic displays of a human brain, surrounded by script he didn't recognize. "Some kind of... hospital?"

"Do you remember who you are?" asked the short man. "How about your name?"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi," came the reply. "Knight Guardian of the Jedi Order... w-who are _you_ people?"

Before he had even finished, the short man shook his head in disappointment. "Damn, we lost him again. Take out the trodes, I'll call Doctor Blanchett."

Obi-Wan felt something slick and slimy being removed from his scalp. It reeked of disinfectant. "I asked you a question!" Obi-Wan raised his voice, as his patience was wearing a bit thin. "Who are you?! Where am I?! What are you doing to me?!"

"We're just a couple of techs, Mr. MacGuinness. We're in the Madison Mental Health Hospital, and..." the toothy man sighed wearily, as if this wasn't the first time he had answered those questions. "...And this will be our seventh attempt at unscrambling your brains."

"My brains are fine!" Obi-Wan protested. "I demand that you release me at once!"

"Whatever you say," said the short man. "I swear, this is starting to get old."

Obi-Wan struggled against his bonds, but he felt an intense pain in his bones. "Argh!"

"Sir, the bone-weave hasn't set yet," warned the toothed man. "Stop struggling or they'll break. Again."

With no other recourse, Obi-Wan took a deep breath, and looked the toothed man straight in the eyes, and concentrated on his presence in the Force. "You will undo these restraints, and leave this chamber with the door open."

The toothy man just stared silently at Obi-wan for a moment, and then promptly tightened the restraints. "He's trying his magic on me again," he sighed. "Why is it always me?"

"The bigger folk always underestimate dwarves," replied the short man. Obi-Wan felt the sting of a hypo sending vapours through his skin. "Nighty-night, Mr. MacGuinness."

"Mages, I swear..."

"Sleep now, mister MacGuinness…" was the last thing Obi-Wan heard before darkness took him, the sound was faded, and dreamlike... and then in the shadows he heard it again, louder, like a command.

 **SLEEP. NOW.**

-{S}-

* * *

"...is this guy, anyways?" said a thin blurr in the shape of a man. His clothing wasn't plastic. Some sort of uniform. "...looks familiar," he said after a moment.

"Patient 0451 1138," recited a deep baritone voice from behind Obi-Wan. The footsteps it belonged to were loud, and shook the ground beneath the wheel-chair, much like a wookie's. "Ewan McGuinness, some washed-up actor on welfare and a simsense ad—"

 _They passed an open door by, and the pristine white walls turned tarnished and moldy, the white light had become dim and blue, and on the periphery of his vision Obi-Wan could make out tall pale figures in dark leather robes. Some of them were using elaborate claw_ _-_ _like tools of steel upon paralyzed patients while others examined vials of foul_ _-l_ _ooking liquids that glowed in the dark._

"—it BTL?" asked the thin man. The hospital became bright again, and the figures were gone. Obi-Wan wanted to shout a warning to his minders, but his lips wouldn't move. In fact, not much else did, besides his eyes and their lids. The drugs, he realized, had rendered him not only docile, but had trapped him in his own body. He recalled his Jedi training, and tried to purge the chemicals from his body.

They passed another room. A woman was talking to someone — _The dark ones shove needles in her exposed brain, and she smiles as mold crawls, blooms, and spills over her head.—_

"No ports," said the rumbling voice. "But speedballing Tempo and Cram turned his brains into drek. Can't tell himself from his previous roles any more. Right now he thinks he's some kind of mystic from this cheesy sci-fi tri-vid serial called—"

A patient danced — _but his flesh and bones weren't real_ _;_ _in truth he was little else than his brains and guts, held toge_ _t_ _her by a pear-shaped glass pod, framed by black chitin embossed in nightmarish, phallic patterns.—_

"...Trek, or somesuch."

"Huh... yeah, I think I saw him play Hamlet, once."

"Hamlet was yesterday. Before that, It was that guy from the Tempest."

"Didn't think trolls liked Shakespeare..." the thin man snickered — _Couldn't he feel the black cords coming out of his spine, exposed to the air?_

"Fuck you," said the 'troll' good-naturedly. "We're here." They stopped in front of a room, with all the charms of a prison cell.

"Hhhh-hhh-heeeelp... me..." Obi-Wan finally managed to croak.

The 'troll' came around and looked at Obi-Wan's eyes. The large humanoid had horns, and fangs and — _his head was in a cage_ _. H_ _is jaw had been torn away to make way for a speaker. "_ _ **HUH,"**_ _the speaker screamed. "_ _ **THAT'S SOME ROCKSTAR CONSTITUTION YOU"—**_ "got there, Ewan."

"Should I dose him again?" asked the thin man.

"Pleeeeaaaaaase..." Obi-Wan protested. He felt drool on his chin. "...nnnnnng. Ng!"

The troll shook his head. "Nah, doctor's orders – can't overdo it with the meds." The troll effortlessly carried Ewan — " _OBI-WAN! MY NAME IS OBI-WAN!" another Obi-Wan screamed in the dark, its voice disturbing the pollen that hung in foul air_ — into the room, and he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. Gone was his fair brown beard and coiffed hair, and his robes had been replaced with patient's scrubs. His eyes were sunken, and even without facial hair it was obvious he had aged significantly past his thirty-five years of age.

 _How long have I been here?!_ He wondered.

The troll put him on the bed, and began to strap him to it by the arms.

"Is he dangerous?" asked the thin man.

"Standard procedure for mages that can cast mind domination spells — make sure he can't make signs."

"...What if he needs to go to the bathroom?"

The troll pointed at the package in the thin man's left hand. "That's what the diaper is for."

Obi-Wan was helpless as they robbed him of this last shred of dignity.

"Goodnight, Ewan," said the troll wearily, as it had been a long shift. "See you tomorrow."

The instant the troll orderly had switched the light off — _five figures in the shape of men loomed over Obi-Wan, but they were not really men, not quite, for men's heads were not five-petaled blooms of skin and gums and teeth and eyes. Nor were men equipped with lamprey mouths for genitals._

 _Clank. The door was locked shut, and Obi-Wan knew that he was now trapped._

 _Obi-Wan had not screamed in terror since he was a small child, and he had yet to break this long record. Instead his eyes darted around, hoping to find a weapon. He thought about using the_ _F_ _orce to break the mirror into a dozen shards and to use them as a projectile... but as the horrors in the shape of people loomed so close he could smell the stench of their slobber, a primal instinct screamed in the back of his mind that it was no use._

 _Bound to the bed, Obi-Wan could only do one thing._

 _He prayed._

" _I am one with the_ _F_ _orce, the_ _F_ _orce is with me..."_

 _The creatures loomed closer..._

" _I am one with the_ _F_ _orce, the_ _F_ _orce is with me..."_

 _They started making sucking noises, as if they drank from his fear. Soon they would inhale his flesh._

" _I-I am one with the_ _F_ _orce, and the_ _F_ _orce is with me..." Obi-Wan began to whimper. "My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, I am one with the_ _F_ _orce..."_

 _Obi-Wan took a deep breath, and let go, and braced himself for his doom._

" _I am one with the Force." He said once more, with finality._

 _At that moment, the horrors recoiled in disgust, or fear, Obi-Wan could not tell. They retreated in_ _to_ _the shadows, fusing with the mold of the walls, staying at the periphery of the light, but Obi-Wan could still hear their warped coos and twisted speech._

 _It was going to be a very long night._

" _I am one with the Force,"—_ "And the Force is with me," the patient muttered in his sleep, as nightmares robbed him of rest.

-{S}-

* * *

Anakin felt nothing as time slipped away, like sand between his fingers. Night became dawn, dawn became midlight, and midlight became dusk in the span of a blink of the eye. He had caught glimpses of moments in time — a skinny old doctor had come by to examine him. His rescuer bringing in a large power cell and plugging him to it. The IV drip. None of it had roused him into full consciousness. It was as if his recent traumas had scoured him clean of emotion, as if he had lost a piece of his soul.

Weeks passed in this bed. He could hear music below, day and night, synthesized by machines even older than the ones he used to salvage in the deserts of Tatooine. He heard laughter, and yelling, and the clinking of glass in the span of a breath.

She sat on a couch nearby, reading a book, wearing little else but bloomers and a pull-over. Her legs were long, and milky; her long hair was black, with a purple sheen. _No._ Too soon, much too soon.

 _Padme is dead, and the fault is mine._ Anakin could feel a pang of pain and guilt at the memory, and he holds on to it, as it is all he can really feel. Still, he is not roused, and he just lays there.

She looked over plastic sheets and holographic screens; she's getting worried.

A month passed, maybe.

"I'll be right back," she said.

One blink. Two blinks. Three blinks. Twelve.

She didn't come back.

Still, Anakin wasn't roused.  
A song filled with longing played on a box near the bed. He caught some bits of lyrics, 'Children wake up', 'million little gods', 'glowin' lightning bolts'.

" _And that was 'Wake up' by Arcade Fire..."_

Anakin tuned the man's voice out, and then another song full of gibberish came on. It was nice enough, but after a dozen repeats Anakin had learned to hate it.

" _I AM THE EGGMAN—"_

The fallen Jedi had finally been roused, and his first act had been to smash the box with his metal fist. Sparks fizzled out, and the music player managed to croak out a bit more of 'Wake up' before finally shutting down:

" _Y-You beTt-ttter loooooook dooooooown b-b-b-beloooooooow..."_

His grasp of time firm once again, Anakin shut his eyes, trying to fall asleep. He had no such luck.

Clack, clack, crack...

-{S}-

* * *

"JIIIIIILLLLLL..." whined the dwarf as he tossed another little piece of ferrocrete at her apartment's window, cracking it. "JILL IT'S BEEN A LONG COUPLE OF DAYS AND I'M SOBER. OPEN UP!"

When the whining and vandalism failed to work... he proceeded to knock on the door. Sure, he could have just gone to any convenient store and gotten himself the bottled stuff, but nobody mixed a Mona Lisa Overdrive like Jillian Krjn. At least, that's what he told himself – the truth was that Jillian reminded him of his dead wife, and talking to her (and drinking her booze) made his existence as a wage slave bearable.

"JIIIIIILLLL... Come on! I'm thirsty!" He rapped on the door again, and refused to let up, not caring one bit how annoying the act might be to whomever was inside. And as the door opened, the dwarf expected to see Jillian's smooth delicate features. Instead he beheld some tall, deathly pale razorboy chromed-up so badly he was this close to being a zombie. The man was starting down at the dwarf with eerily cold blue cybernetic eyes, peaking from beneath a mop of wavy black hair. He hadn't had a shave or a haircut in years, the dwarf noted. He also didn't smell very good.

"What," said the razorboy. His voice was young, but low, growly and guttural, like one of them wolves rich elves kept as pets.

The dwarf just stood there, hoping that his bladder wouldn't suddenly empty itself.

The razorboy kept glaring at him.

"...Is the bar open?" asked the dwarf, finally.

The razorboy kept glaring at him.

"...Is Jillian home?"

The razorboy kept glaring at him.

"Okay then... I'll just ah, I'll just go, then?"

"Wise."

The door shut in the dwarf's face, and he just stood there, dumbly. "Well, that was a thing," he said out loud. It wasn't every day that naked cyborgs answered the door, after all.

-{S}-

* * *

Anakin locked the deadbolt and hoped the tiny, stocky human would have the good sense to leave, and that the sign hung on the small glass window meant 'CLOSED'. It wasn't in _aurebesh_ , or even _huttese,_ so he couldn't tell.

He found the main power switch, threw it, and looked around. The floor under what had been his room was indeed a cantina: there was a bar opposite the main entrance, with a prominent machine made of chrome tubes and containers. Behind the bar were shelves of crystal bottles, kept under lock and key. The walls were smooth plaster, painted a dark purple, and the chairs were dark chrome and fuchsia-colored fake leather, matching the mood lightning that emerged from the glow-tubes lining the floor. Loops of white glow-tubes were the main source of illuminations above the gleaming glass tables. Holograms streamed above the bar, in glyphs that, to Anakin's growing frustration, he was also unable to read. The jukebox, a bunch of floating disc displays arrayed around a floating globe, began to play the standard playlist.

Anything but that 'walrus' song, Anakin thought.

He found the kitchen, found what looked like a fridge, and began to tear into a package of something that tasted like tomatoes, but had the consistency of sun-dried meats. He had eaten six packages of 'tomato jerky' before there came another rapping on the door.

"We're closed," he said out loud. He looked at the door – it was night, and the illumination on the street was dim. Probably the dwarf again, he thought, as the knocking continued. Right now, Anakin was more interested in attacking his seventh package.

"We're CLOSED!" he bellowed, and the knocking stopped.

His belly full, Anakin then noted his own nakedness. He thought it odd that he hadn't taken notice of it, for so long, but then decided that his current condition must have had a strange effect on his sense of self. He went back upstairs and raided his rescuer's drawers and closet, only to find nothing but clothes for a slender young woman.

"What else did I expect?" He muttered. He hadn't seen this Jillian living with another man, besides himself. _Then again,_ he thought, _she had done so much for me already, she might also have bought me some clothes. Then again, maybe that's what she went out for?_

 _Where was she? As a matter of fact... where am I? Coruscant? How did I even get here?_

Eventually he found a plastic bag, and inside of it were a pair of black pants made out of a sturdy twill fabric, and a plain black, sleeveless v-neck shirt. No shoes, nor boots, but its not like he needed either any more, thanks to the gel pads on his metal soles.

As he put on his clothes, Anakin surveyed the loft. In contrast to the bar below, it wasn't as spacious, and was definitely more spartan... at least, it would have been were it not for the countless colourful posters covering nearly every inch of the grey walls. Anakin had seen the like before. Clearly this Jillian was a fan of the opera, he thought, but then the pictures of groups of groups of pretty young men puzzled him a bit.

Besides the posters, the room was outfitted with a cooling unit mounted on the window, and next to the bed, besides the couch, was a very short wooden table with a quilt around it, but no matching chairs. Next to the bed was the IV unit and health monitors he had unplugged himself from.

Anakin sat on the couch – more of a giant pillow, really, and tried to mentally piece together how he had come to be here. As he recalled It began with the official declaration of war by the Galactic Republic against the Confederacy of Independent Systems. The Republic Senate demanded that the Jedi take the reigns of the Grand Army of the Republic, composed of billions of genetically engineered clones, and the Jedi had come very close to accepting... _how hard could it be?_ they thought, completely ignoring the lessons paid for by the deaths of hundreds of Jedi at the battle of Geonosis... that was until the stranger that had come to their aid shortly before the arrival of the clone army spoke sense into them.

 _What was his name?"_ thought Anakin. _Something that started with a_ Krill _? Or was it a_ Kresh _? Why can't I remember? I remember wanting to be like him so badly. He seemed so free, for a Jedi... carried himself like Qui-Gon._

The Council then declared to the Senate that they would lend their support to the war effort, but ultimately refused to lead the Grand Army of the Republic, citing lack of training in matters of warfare. Politicians being politicians, the Senate had not taken this well, and the richer elements began to call in favours. Before long, the Temple was out of water and electricity, it's myriad accounts with the Bank of Fe were frozen through impenetrable bureaucratic processes. The Agricorp's freighters were denied fuel, and some of them had even been seized. The food would not last, and the Agricorp's garden in the temple could only make so much edible fruit. The Younglings would have been the first to begin starving, as they could not go into a fasting trance.

And yet, despite everything, the food never quite ran out.

" _What DO the Jedi eat?"_ Anakin could recall their guest's pilot asking the question — the answer should have been simple, uncomplicated. Obi-Wan had certainly thought so, but Anakin had become genuinely curious when it led him to other questions: Where does it come from? Who makes it? How? Why?

A short adventure with his guest later — _what was his name?!_ — he had answered all these questions: Apparently, a now-defunct corporation had built a hydroponic farm deep under the temple, operated by ancient, slightly malfunctioning droids. The entire system was powered by fusion reactor so old that a cult had formed around it... and unfortunately, it had just run out of fuel when they found it.

-{S}-

* * *

 _At the center of the High Council chamber, Anakin and Obi-Wan stood side-by-side, as the Jedi Masters briefed them on their mission._

" _The vestiges of this..." Master Yoda eyed the translation curiously. "...Kwonsham Industries, we must gather for ourselves. Deep into Coruscant will you go, perhaps deeper than any Jedi in millenia, and claim their ancient machines in the name of the Jedi Order, you will."_

" _Are things so dire?" Asked Obi-Wan, subtly voicing his disapproval at the mission: they were Jedi, not scavengers. Anakin bristled a bit — his childhood on Tatooine had been spent being just that, a scavenger... and a very good one, too._

" _No," replied Mace Windu. "But we'll need to acquire some... how did Senator Amidala put it?"_

" _Some negotiating power," said Shaak-Ti._

 _Windu nodded. "That, and some logistical independence from the rest of Coruscant's... merchants. Our independence depends on it."_

" _Our guest has offered the Obsidian Hawk to transport you and anything you salvage up and down Shaft 12," said Shaak-Ti, "From here to level 1313."_

 _The Red Mummer examined her face, and caressed her Montrals. She paid him no mind._

" _Advise you against going any deeper, I must," said Yoda. "Coruscant is an impossibly vast construct, teeming with life and energy, especially at the core. Our sight will fail you, should you become lost."_

" _We shall go at once!" said Anakin, over-eager as always._

 _Yoda nodded, and smiled. "One thing more, before you leave, Master Renn Tonn and Padawan Marek have been assigned to aid you. Already they wait at the landing pad. Brief them in turn, you will._

" _Annoying, this is," said the Mummer, mockingly mimicking the mini-jedi's mannerisms. "Stand this, how can you?"_

 _What the—_

 _-{S}-_

* * *

Someone knocked at the door, snapping Anakin out of his meditation, and he went down to tell them off. Just as he came downstairs, the knocking stopped, and with a clarity that surprised him, he heard the telltale clicks of a mechanism being tampered with.

"Burglars, now, is it?" he muttered to himself. Old habits had him reach for a lightsaber at his belt, but of course, he didn't have one anymore, so he had to make do with the next best thing he could find in short order: a bar stool. Then, he quietly took position besides the door, and waited in ambush. The burglar had succeeded in unlocking the door, but the deadbolt held fast. The burglar dealt with that by shoving a red-hot blade through the gap of the door and slowly slicing through the steel rod.

The door opened and, once Anakin was absolutely certain that person passing through the threshold wasn't his rescuer, he brought the bar stool down hard.

There was a flash of gold, and Anakin stared dumbly at the twisted metal of the bar stool. Then a flash of blue, and he was thrown into the stairs, breaking them apart. For a moment he beheld the interloper: it was a tall male human, clad in a grey 2-piece suit and a dark brown overcoat made of thick woven cloth. His face was aged, worn by time, scarred by a blade, and covered by a well-cropped, full silver beard. His hair was well-combed, parted back and to the side. The silver-plated gun was of secondary importance to Anakin, who had just spotted the man's most striking feature.

Cat-like eyes, glinting with an eldritch gold.

"SITH!" Anakin yelled, as he focused on the man's weapon and reached out with his metal hand to perform a Force Pull. Nothing happened.

The man raised the weapon, and aimed it between Anakin's eyes. "Who are you?"

"Your worst enemy!" The fallen Jedi quickly leapt into action, charging his foe one moment, intent on using his new limbs to his advantage in destroying the ancient enemy. But there was no fight; instead there was a green glow, a sign, and Anakin simply stopped moving, and fell over.

"Hmph. Not even close," muttered the man, before he casually walked past Anakin, and made his way upstairs.

-{S}-

* * *

Half an hour passed, with Anakin counting every second, unable to move. _So this is what it feels like to be Mind Tricked,_ he thought to himself. _No... this is far more powerful, and far more terrible... and much more visible._ Symbols in an alien script danced all around him, reminding him of images of Dathomiri Nightsisters he had committed to memory during one of his obligatory trips to the library. He could hear the sounds of rummaging above. _What is that blackguard up to?_ He wondered. It would be ten minutes before he caught sight of the man's finely buffed shoes.

The Sith gently kicked Anakin's prone and immobilized body around, and knelt besides him. He made a sign with his left hand, and the script around Anakin's face was dispelled.

"I have nothing to say to you, SITH!" Anakin spat.

"I'm not a Sith. I'm just a man with a gun, a spell book and a few questions."

Anakin kept his mouth shut. He had read the stories. He knew how the Sith operated: through mind games.

" **Talk**." The Sith commanded.

"She is not my friend," said Anakin, despite himself. This was true, from a certain point of view. After all, he had only learned of her name recently from the dwarf, and besides that, he knew little else of her.

"Lover then?"

"No."

The Sith fished out pieces of white glossy paper from his coat pocket. "No? Then how you do you explain this?" Ge read the note out loud: "StimPatches, an IV unit, colostomy bags, catheters, Raffia bottles, a biocell charger. That's _thousands_ of Njen, Njen that she can barely afford to spend on the rent of this dive, let alone some stray, and I haven't known her to be much of a good Samaritan."

Anakin just glared at the Sith.

"She took a big risk sheltering a wanted _cop killer_ , and she foolishly got herself in mortal danger for a payday big enough to make up for this." He shook the bills. "All for _you_. Now stop lying. Where is she? **Talk**."

The Force had a strong influence on the weak-minded, Master Kenobi had once told Anakin, and it irked the young Jedi that he lacked the Willpower to resist the sith's powers. "I don't know!" he yelled. "She didn't tell me!"

"Then think!" the Sith growled. "She must have said something that will serve as a clue — **think**!"

Unable to resist the Sith's command, Anakin shut his eyes, and his mind began to go over the weeks of his trance state, until it found something significant.

-{S}-

* * *

 _She was on a communicator, speaking to someone_ _._ _Anakin's ears couldn't quite make out the voice that came through the speaker, but Jillian's voice was clear as a bell. "Ms Kabuto? It's me, Kitfox... Yes, hi! Hi! It's nice to speak with you again, too!... I'm calling because I've got a potential job lined up and... yes, I need to contact some talent... oh, you will? Thank you! I'll be at The Seamstresses' in about an hour..."_

 _Anakin looked to the left. "Important, this is!" said the Mummer, sitting cross-legged on the couch._

 _Wait, what the—_

-{S}-

* * *

"You know something," growled the Sith, who began to trace another sign. Anakin could feel the energies keeping him bound weaken, and tapping into his anger, spite and worry, conjured up the willpower necessary to throw a punch to the Sith's face. The blow wasn't as powerful as Anakin would have liked, but there was enough power behind it to send the dark Force user flying back. Anakin leapt on his feet and was about to run over to finish the Sith off, but he stopped cold when he saw that his opponent was still conscious, had already drawn his gun and was taking aim.

The barrel roared, and time slowed down, allowing Anakin to react quickly and move his head just enough for the bullet to graze his cheek. Behind him the wall exploded into chips of ferrocrete and silvery slag, and he quickly realized that he wasn't dealing with an ordinary weapon. But he was undaunted, and readied himself to dodge more bullets, intent on waiting until the pistol overheated.

Instead the Sith growled, and traced a sign. It glowed orange.

A blazing orange.

"Uh oh," said Anakin as he felt the heat wave.

-{S}-

* * *

The Vallhalla's bar's windows exploded outwards, sending out the Jedi onto the street amidst a shower of broken glass. Passersby stopped to watch the spectacle.

Anakin groaned in pain, as he got up and patted a flame from his sleeveless shirt. He sniffed, checking for the stench of burnt hair, but there was none. _Perhaps the_ _F_ _orce is still with me,_ he thought, amazed at his own survival. "Oh no," he said as the bar started to go up in flames. Anti-incendiary systems built into the building attempted to quench the flames, but the foam was making little progress.

 _At least the Sith will burn,_ thought Anakin. He surveyed the street: a crowd was gathering, and sirens could be heard in the distance. Knowing that getting involved with local enforcement and the fire service would only complicate matters, Anakin fled into the alleys, intent on finding Jillian at this Seamstresses' Union and keeping her safe from the Sith — for much like the Jedi, there were always two Sith: a master, and an apprentice.

He only hoped that he had just dealt with the Master...

-{S}-

* * *

A man emerged from the flames, more pissed than dizzy. All he had wanted to do was make sure KitFox hadn't gone over her head, only to get attacked by that razorboy she had taken in. Turned out he was a delusional loon, to boot. Insanity and cyberware. Never a good combination.

"Sir, are you alright?!" asked one of the SFRS agents, concerned. Their mechs had just begun spraying foam on the fire, keeping it contained.

"Let me help you with that," he said, and with an orange sign and a snap of his fingers the flames simply went out, like a candle blown out.

"Whoa," said one of the agents.

"Come with us," said another. "There's an ambulance—"

"I'm fine," the man insisted, but SFRS protocol demanded that he be checked out. "This was a hunt," he said, giving them his ID. "Critter lit the place up, but it's dead."

One of the agents put it through its PDA, and a detailed holo with the man's mugshot came up, under which read the words:

Ragnor, Gerald T.

Private Investigator & Monster Hunter

"His hunting license checks out," said the agent, who returned Gerald's ID chip. "Sorry to have held you up, Mr. Ragnor. Start of another crazy Seattle night, huh?"

"Yeah," he said as he took leave of them. He walked down the street, made his way to his SydMotors model S, and once he got inside the vehicle he ignited his hand with manafire, lit himself a cigarette, and took a long drag out of 500 Njen's worth of real tobacco. With this lead up in smoke, he decided to visit Kitfox's old haunt: the Seamstresses' Union.

Gerald sighed, as he turned the car key. To put it mildly, Kabuto hated him, but he hoped her sense of professionalism would stop her from shooting him dead, at least long enough to hear him out. He set the car to VTOL and flew off, and quietly hoped that Air Traffic wouldn't be too dense, but at this time of the night? It usually was.

-{S}-

* * *

Next time on Star Wars: Through the Shadows and the Flames:

"You need to hurry!" said Mouse over the radio. "They're keeping her alive somewhere deep, and they're getting ready to—"

Jillian's team of Shadowrunners lay in the corner of the factory floor, their guts about to be picked clean...

" _Jillian was like a daughter to me," said Kabuto, her synthetic skin glinting in the light, "and if she dies because of you... I'll put a bounty on your head so large every bounty hunter in Seattle will come looking to collect."_

" _I warned her that her pretty face and honeyed words would do her no good," snickered Sasquatch._

"YE MACA TIMIQUICAN!" shouted the gangbangers in unison as they swarmed over Anakin.

" _That was some high-quality custom cyberware someone loaded you with," slurred the drunken doctor. "Full of Black Boxes... * **hic*** just might give you the edge."_

Anakin stood victoriously over the insane gangsters that had tried to cut him apart, his metal knuckles wet with blood.

The smart gun roared repeatedly, and the flechettes it spat found their marks, tearing into their targets unprotected heads.

They try to cut him down with their hatchets, but he whirled around them, blade in hand, and chopped them into pieces. Anakin couldn't recall when he had ever indulged in this much bloody violence in his life.

The Shaman, desperate, called for aid from beyond the paling. The alien abomination laughs, but Anakin was hungry for more, and leapt at it, blade overhead.

" _...Do you enjoy hurting people?" Mouse asked over the radio, scared._

The dark bicycle helmet's vocalizer made Anakin's every ragged breath audible, laced with static cracks.

In. Out. In. Out. IN. OUT. **IN. OUT.**

—Episode 2: The Street Jedi Bloodied—

" **...YES,"** he admitted.

-{S}-


	3. Episode 2: The Street Jedi Bloodied pt1

STAR WARS: Through the Shadows and the Flames

A Star Wars/Shadowrun Crossover fanfic

Episode 2: The Street Jedi Bloodied, Part 1  
by IgnusDei

Spellchecking by WarpObscura

Special thanks to my extra-generous Patrons: Shane Boatright, SomeguyOverHere, Pengu1n, Scythe967, Austin, and Jchan!  
Extra Special thanks to Kalaong and Another Grey, my top Patrons!

Support my writing by looking up 'robotforge' on P-A-T-R-E-O-N!

-{S}-

Terrence Tong is voiced by Denis Akiyama

-{S}-

"Sorry pal, I already gave to the shelter."

"A Union? You one of them commies? I hate commies."

"Get away from us."

"TAKE MY CREDSTICK JUST DON'T KILL ME!"

An hour into his quest to find Jillian, and Anakin had not found much in the way of assistance. Instead he had been dismissed, threatened, and mistaken for a robber.

 _What is wrong with the people here?!_ he wondered, that familiar core of bitterness burning like an ember inside of his heart. _I could have found more kindness in the backstreets of Mos Eisley! What is the name of this place, so that I might curse its people forever?!_

His surroundings were familiar – it felt like the depths of Coruscant, but at the same time... it wasn't. It was less dense, for one thing, so he had a better sense of what was going on around him, and allowed Anakin to appreciate the sheer scale of the place, from the ground beneath his feet to the metal floof a kilometer above his head. The open spaces allowed him to see the end of the road he was walking on, the forest of neon and holos coalescing into a single dot of light.

No, this could not be the Undercity of Coruscant. It never had this much space; it had always felt like walking the halls of a moon-sized spaceship.

And on Coruscant, everyone spoke Basic. Now he was walking in an area where the language, both spoken and written, was different. The shape of faces seemed to have changed, too, reminding Anakin of the denizens of Jedha.

"I am so lost..." Anakin began to despair. It seemed his instincts had let him astray, when they had been so reliable before.

"I'd say you are," said someone on his left. Anakin turned to see a tiny old man clad in a poncho sitting at a kiosk, reading something on a black tablet of plastic. The man lifted the visor of a yellow combat helmet that had seen better days. "And you sure as shit don't look like you belong here, _Gweilo."_

Anakin frowned. "I shall leave soon after I find the place I'm looking for," he shot back.

"Hey, don't get your panties in a twist," the man smiled before taking a puff of a mechanical pipe. Many of his teeth were missing, and the rest were rotted.

"Just letting you know, most gangers here don't like _Gweilos..."_ he looked Anakin up and down. "And most of those are stupid enough to try and take on a chromed-up _Künstler_. Some of them are good enough to make a sport out of it. So... what are you looking for, chummer?"

"A place called the Seamstress' Union."

The old grinned. "Ah, that tourist trap..." he sighed wistfully. "Good drinks, great whores. Let me guess? Got mugged on your way there?"

"No, I just... had to leave in a hurry. A friend of mine said she'd be there."

"Well, you're really, really lost now, _Gweilo_. The Union's in Redmond. That's about ten klicks east by north-east of here." The old man tapped on his tablet, and showed Anakin a small map. "See? We're in Chai Town, in the Eye District."

Anakin's eyes narrowed at it. "I've been running south in the wrong direction!"

"Eh, not quite. If you had gone straight East, you would have gone smack dab in Hallower territory. They'd have ripped your chrome out. If you wanna get to the Redmond Sprawl you've come to the right place. Chai Town is close to the old Nine-Oh. We got a few Black Taxis here that will take you there for about... six thousand Njen?"

Anakin didn't know what even a single of these Njen was worth. He eyed the old man's kiosk. "What will six thousand... Njen will get me from your stall, merchant."

The old man scowled, a bit confused at the question. Then, after a moment, he pointed at a few goods on his stall. "About six packs of Royal Hellhounds — which is a pretty decent brand as far cig cartridges go. Ten packs SoySnaks or Veggie Jerky... Twenty cans of Blue Grail beer if you're up for a casual party. A single dose of Jetstream or Krank, if you REALLY wanna party — That shit's in the back, incidentally — And... let's see... A six month membership card for a porn service?"

"...What about a loaf of bread?" asked Anakin, hoping to get a clearer picture. Bread was cheap, after all. "How many of those is that worth?"

"...what, you mean REAL bread?! Shit, son, you really aren't from around here! Get me a loaf of bread and you can have ALL of this crap, AND I'll throw a brand new car. Look, 6000 _Njen_ is a nice little chunk of change – big enough for bums to kill each other over — but BREAD?" The old man had a good laugh at that one. "Six K won't get you bread."

"Well, it matters not," said Anakin. "I haven't a single of these Njen in my possession."

"Oh, looking for a job? I know a few places that wouldn't mind some muscle, or a pretty face."

"I don't have enough time to wait for pay."

"Need something more immediate? Because I've got just the thing for you..."

-{S}-

* * *

Anakin, clad in the dirty poncho the old man had given him, sat down near the back alley, stared at his knees in shame, held out his hands for alms, and waited. The act felt... awful, but not because of the stench coming from the alley, or because the ground was dirty. No... he had seen his mother do this before, in the streets of Anchorhead, back when he was but a helpless babe, before the toydaran had bought them... before, when they had _nothing_.

"Alms for the poor," Anakin said, echoing his mother's voice some twenty cycles past. Time had dulled the pain of that old wound. Discipline had kept the tears away. "Please... Alms for the poor." _Maybe I should be crying_ , he thought. _Arouse some pity?_

He had not needed to wait long for someone to spit at him. He would have waited longer before anyone would have spared a pre-paid credstick for some _Gweilo_ , but that was when the Golden Orphans had appeared.

The Golden Orphans were a fairly small gang, somewhere in the lower middle of Chai Town's criminal food chain. Like most gangs, they were mostly made up of Third — and sometimes Fourth — Children, unwanted offspring that were worth little more than animals in the eyes of the Law. What set them apart from the other street gangs was an apparent obsession with gold. Gold teeth, gold jewels, gold jackets, gold condoms – you named it, they had it in gold.

Fake gold, of course.

It wasn't so much the gold they were obsessed with, of course. That was just a symptom of the terrible obsession inside every Orphan, this simple idea: I am better than you and I want you to know it. If you gave them less than the respect they thought they deserved, well... the gold may have been fake, but the chrome certainly wasn't.

Oh, and they absolutely hated bums. Probably because it reminded them too much of where they had come from, or where they might have ended up.

"Well, well, well..." The leader of the pack of Orphans chucked. "What do we have here?"

Anakin glanced up at them. There were eight of them, clad in various articles of gold, contrasted by various bits of white cloth either silky or cotton in texture. They all had that Jedhan look about them, marred by pieces of metal. Their leader — a man taller than Anakin by a couple of inches and four inches wider — cracked the knuckles on his meat hand, making sure that Anakin got a good look at the thick cable actuators that animated his golden arm prosthetic. The leader of the group of Orphans stared down at Anakin and sneered, saying, "Do you know where you are, white boy?"

"Alms for the poor..." Anakin repeated, playing dumb.

The alpha thug's idea of charity? Grabbing Anakin by the neck, and dragging the young Jedi into the alley. "You're in Golden Orphan turf, white boy! That means you give us tribute in either cash or ass!"

" _Doesn't look like he's got much cash on him, boss!"_ said a young man with artificial legs.

" _Pretty mouth on him though!"_ said another thug, suggestively caressing the tip of a short blade. " _I say ass!"_

" _Ass! Ass! Ass!_ " they chanted, though Anakin could not understand their Mandarin. That suited him just fine. In the end, they'd soon speak a universal language.

 _-{S}-_

* * *

" _Have you studied the diagrams?" asked Kamus Kajrai – yes, that was his name, which had escaped Anakin's thoughts — the newly knighted errant Jedi. He had been the one that had brought the counsel that had attracted the ire of the rest of the Republic. Normally, Anakin would have though anyone that counseled peace over war a coward – but the man had proven over and over again that the Jedi knew little of fighting a total war. Resentment had turned to respect, then admiration for the half-Jedhan monk turned mercenary._

" _I have," replied Anakin._

 _Kajrai nodded. "Then let us begin."_

 _Under the watchful eye of Battlemaster Cin Drallig, Kamus walked through the execution of the basics of Teräs Käsi, an unarmed combat discipline devised by the followers of Palawa to fight – of all things- the Jedi themselves. It was an odd irony that they were learning it here in the Temple, of all places, and odder still that Drallig had even approved._

 _Anakin liked it – the blows_ _and_ _strikes were fast, brutal, and graceful._

" _You've practiced this style before?" asked Kajrai._

" _No, but I've seen KanjiKlub thugs practice it on Hutt mercernaries," replied Anakin. "It left an impression."_

" _KanjiKlub thugs prac_ _t_ _ice Silat," corrected Master Drallig, even as he took notes. "It is based on Teräs Käsi, but was dressed down for military training."_

 _And hour later, Kamus had worked out the kinks in Anakin's techniques. Pride got to Anakin's head, and he tried to execute a Slashing Wampa._

 _Kamus countered with a Förräderi, and Anakin was on the ground._

 _Cin smiled, shaking his head. "Impatient one as always_ _,_ _Anakin." The Battlemaster joined the Knight-Errant in giving Anakin a hand getting up. "I've told you before, your raw talents are no substitute for practice."_

" _They served me well so far," countered Anakin, his ego as bruised as_ _h_ _is ribs. "Masters, I am curious... why the sudden focus on unarmed combat?" he looked at Kajrai." I had believed we would be focusing on firearms."_

" _Rumor has it that Dooku has been training assassins in this very art," said Drallig. "I intend to make sure all Jedi are prepared against them."_

" _There is another reason," added Kajrai. "Have you ever lost your lightsaber, Anakin?"_

 _The Padawan nodded, embarrassed._

" _And have you ever lost your connection to the_ _F_ _orce?"_

 _Anakin scowled. "I didn't believe it possible."_

" _Oh..." A pained look came over Kajrai's face for a moment, reminding Anakin of Watto, moments before he began to drink and the shocks began. Anakin should have felt pity, but instead he suppressed a wince. "Oh, it can happen. There are creatures out there that will do it with their mere presence, and there are Nightsister curses so terrible that your only hope will be to cut yourself off from the_ _F_ _orce, lest you suffer eternal damnation."_

 _Kamus took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, regaining his composure._

" _Should your lose the_ _F_ _orce and your lightarms, what will you have left?" Kajrai turned to Anakin, and looked at him expectantly._

 _Anakin mulled over the question a bit, before finally answering. "Myself."_

 _Kajrai smiled. "Indeed. And knowledge of Teräs Käsi will allow you to turn yourself into a living weapon."_

" _...But Teräs Käsi can't be all that effective without the_ _F_ _orce, can it?"_

 _Kajrai smiled. "Tell that to KanjiKlub."_

 _-{S}-_

* * *

In the dark depths of the alley, Anakin smiled. He may not have the Force any more, but he had a new body, with a new strength that made for an even more powerful weapon.

In the dark depths of the Alley, the Golden Orphans screamed... first in pain, then in terror.

 _-{S}-_

* * *

"Back already?" said the old man.

"It was as you said," said Anakin as he made room on the kiosk for the makeshift poncho bag. "It didn't take long for them to come after a pauper."

"I said 'bum', but whatever. Let's see what you got for me."

Anakin opened the bag, exposing its contents.

Minutes later, they had taken inventory of a pack of cigarette cartridges, three credsticks, two condoms, seven rings, a HF machete with a black scabbard, a cyberarm, a two cyberlegs, a datapad, and eight incisor teeth covered in gold. Real gold. It was part of a rite of passage with Orphans, and of greater interest to the old man than anything else Anakin had brought him.

"I love working with _Kunstlers_ ," the old man smiled. "You fuckers always do great work. I take it they're all dead?"

"No, I told you—"

"You're no killer, yeah yeah... This suits me fine, anyways. Less heat." The old man began to slot the credsticks one by one into a larger cylinder, fattening it with digital currency before handing the thing to Anakin. "Eighty K for the teeth, plus a fifty K bonus for the stuff. Cyberware's basic crap, but I know a guy who can smelt it all for printer fluid." He grabbed the machete. "Oh, and keep this. You'll need it."

Anakin accepted the Njen stick and the weapon both, and bowed politely. "Thank you."

"That should be enough for your fare, and a night out at the Union, and a day at a pod hotel to work off the hangover. Or a clinic fee, if you can't handle the booze." He leaned in conspiratorially. "While you're there, give Candi a try."

"I have no need for sweetmeats," said Anakin, innocently.

"Candi with an 'i', kiddo. Sweetest meat there is. Come back around if you need any more quick cash. Always got work for a basher like you."

"I'll think about it... hold, I never asked your name, forgive me."

"Terrence Tong. How about you?"

"Anakin Skywalker."

Tong grinned. "Heh, your parents had an odd sense of humor!"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean, Anakin... sounds Jap, or something."

Anakin frowned.

"It sounds Jap, that's all I'm saying. In any case, take care of yourself."

"Farewell, Tong."

 _-{S}-_

* * *

At the center of the Redmond sector, deep inside Hallower gang territory, amidst slums, tenements and old factories... there was a tiny island of neon holos, a quarter made up of kiosks, clubs, and convenience stores... and right at the center of it was The Seamstresses' Union.

Gerald beheld the blue and pink neon-bright holo sign of the whorehouse – it was that of a comely, busty woman suggestively inserting an oversized thread through an oversized needle, with a wink and a smile for good measure. This place had once been a favourite of Quentin's – not particularly because he liked the place, but because many a Shadowrunner that had gone on to affect some measure of change in the World had begun their careers here. Gerald himself had never been here, but he had heard that Lady Kabuto was running the place.

After the Tunnel Wars, Kabuto and Gerald were not exactly on speaking terms.

Getting in had been fairly easy. A quick Sign and Gerald had gotten past the bouncer without paying or getting frisked. The inside was... not what Gerald had expected. Despite being in the middle of a hive of scum and villainy, the Union felt... oddly warm, and optimistic – the lights were bright and yellow, the wooden walls gave it a homelike feeling, helping the jukebox's music in generating good cheer amidst the various mercs and lowlifes that frequented this place. _No time to enjoy the ambi_ _e_ _nce_ , thought Gerald, _gotta start asking some questions._

It had taken close to an hour, but eventually someone talked.

"Yeah, she was here," the oversized, fur-covered troll replied before drinking from his large tankard of Soy Beer. Called Sasquatch by the Union's clients, the man was easily one of the most sought-after Shadowrunners when a team needed tank-level firepower on a mission. As such, he received a lot of requests, and many of them didn't work out. Sasquatch didn't work for cheap. "I warned her that her pretty face and honeyed words would do her no good," snickered Sasquatch. "Ocelots are screamers, not talkers."

 _Jill is more than a pretty face,_ thought Gerald. "What did Jill want with the Ocelots, exactly?"

"Something valuable," Sasquatch set his tankard down. "Said a cut would set us up for a good long while, but she wasn't specific. Didn't have cash up front, though."

"That's why you didn't take the job? Ocelots are gangbangers." He nodded meaningfully at Sasquatch's prosthetic metal hands, painted red. "No match for someone like you."

"Besides being half as numerous as the Hallowers, Ocelots have about twice as many mages – blood mages that is." Sasquatch flexed his hands. "By the time I geek one mage, I'd be out of bullets, and the rest will boil me alive."

"Where are these Ocelots?"

"Renkaku Underground, sector 451." Sasquatch's eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

"I might be planning an extraction job," replied Gerald. "For Jill."

"You'll be extracting her corpse," Sasquatch took another gulp from his tankard. "I don't come cheap, especially not for a run inside the Ocelots' main stronghold."

"I pay up front," Gerald slapped a large platinum coin on the table they had been sitting at. "For the beer," he smiled. "I'll stay in touch."

 _-{S}-_

* * *

Gerald needed privacy to make a call. The troll would make a good disposable asset, but he would need professionals for what came next. Weaving a path through orcs, elves and harlots on his way out, he had been stopped by a blonde woman in lingerie.

"Hi there, handsome!" she said, with a slight drawl. She put her hand on her hip, and raised her serving tray. "The name's... Candi." And there was something in the way she had said 'Candi' that promised all sorts of carnal pleasures without actually describing them. "I'm almost off the clock, but is there something I can help you with before I'm gone for the night?" Her question seemed innocent, and that little wink at the end had almost sealed the deal – Gerald hated to admit it, but these days his appetite for shapely young women got the better of him.

Not today, however. Today he had an objective, and that always overrode his lust . Still, he gave her his best smile. "Maybe..." he said meaningfully. After all, she wanted his coin as much as he wanted her. "I'm looking for someone in particular. About your height, but dark-haired and—"

Candi rolled her eyes, and the spell they had over each other was snuffed out. "Jill, right?" she sighed. "Why does everyone want Jill today?"

Gerald frowned. "Someone else is looking for her?"

"Hm-hm..." she smiled. "About your height, but dark-haired and—"

"Very funny," he said dismissively. "But I don't have time for jokes."

"—much younger looking." She bit her lower lip, her expression wistful. "And very cute too, despite the scars and the augs."

"...Did he have a beard, too?"

"That he did. Not as well kept as yours though."

"Where is he?"

Candi narrowed her eyes, and lowered her tray. _Nothing's free around here._ Gerald obliged her with a platinum coin.

"He's chilling by the bar. Doc Rick seems to know him pretty good. They just started chattin', if you're looking to eavesdrop."

"Thank you."

 _-{S}-_

* * *

 _It's him_ _,_ thought Gerald as he caught sight of the insane Razorboy Jill had taken in. _Killing him now would only bring the whole place down on me_ _;_ _better wait until he's alone._

After casting a hex on himself to mask his presence, Gerald sat some distance away from the augmented man. Too far away for a normal person to eavesdrop, of course, but Gerald's abilities allowed him to focus on the conversation the Razorboy and the Bonesaw were having, drowning out the sounds of the bar with sheer focus.

" _That was some high-quality custom cyberware someone loaded you with,"_ slurred the drunken doctor, before burping out loud. He had been drinking quite a bit, too much for a meta-human, that much was obvious. How he could hold a conversation was a mystery Gerald didn't care much to solve. " _Nothing like I've ever seen before! The bone fusion alone... almost as if the stuff was GROWN out of you!"_ The old man seemed ecstatic. " _I would have loved to have you convalesce in my lab and observe you – for science, of course! But, then Jill went full Nightingale on you and well... *hic!* seems she took good care of you, though? I mean, I gave her plenty of instructions but—"_

" _She did fine,"_ said the Razorboy. " _And it is my duty to repay her kindness, but first I must find her. Do you have any idea where she went?"_

The Bonesaw rubbed his eyes. " _Ah, nuts... she said something that she had found something extremely valuable. An egg, or a cup, or something..."_

 _No_ , thought Gerald. _That Razor_ _b_ _oy needs to be thrown off the scent. I can't allow him to run off and interfere!_ Quickly tracing a sign with salted chalk on the table, Gerald muttered a curse – a temporary one — that would confuse the old man.

" _She told me about this gang... but... but... the name, I knew their name, some kind of cat, but?_

" _Hallower," Gerald slipped the word into the old man's mind, but the alcohol in his system was interfering with the effect._

" _Are you alright?"_ concerned, the Razorboy put a his hand on the old Bonesaw's shoulder. That was when Gerald's hold began to slip. Unaccustomed to failure and hating interference in his plans, Gerald redoubled his efforts.

 _"You look... ill,"_ said the Razorboy.

 _"It's the drink, i think..."_

 _"Bullshit,"_ said the red-haired elf bartender. _"You haven't even downed a whole bottle of reactor squeezin's!"_

 _Hallower... Hallower... Hallower..._

" _Hallowers!"_ the old man finally said, but the Razorboy was nowhere near him. Gerald, to his own shock, felt a daze creep on his consciousness, and wondered just how much that spell had taken out of him. His eyes were still keen, and they darted about, looking for the young cyborg.

That was when Gerald felt an iron grip on his shoulder. "Hi," said the Razorboy, his other fist raised for a straight punch aimed at Gerald's jaw.

"H—," Gerald's quip was interrupted by the impact. Despite reflexively casting his enhanced magic armor, the impact had sent him flying high above the crowd, right into an orc that had just slotted his credstick into the Jukebox. As Gerald fell on him yelling an obscenity, the orc's face was smashed against the Jukebox's window, accidentally selecting an oldie song called 'Ballroom Blitz.'

As the drum solo rose, the orc turned around with a coldly furious snarl. That was when he caught sight of an elven mage, and assumed he was responsible for the humie that had been thrown at him. It wasn't true, but the orc had been looking for an excuse all night to throw a chair at the elf's face. The elf's attempt to dodge caused him to bump into a dwarf, who liked neither elves nor orcs and grabbed the nearest glass bottle to serve as a makeshift club. The dwarf hit another dwarf by mistake, and...

 _Oh yeah! It was like lightning_  
 _Everybody was fighting_  
 _And the music was soothing_  
 _And they all started grooving_

 _Yeeeeah, yeah YEAH_ _ **YEAH**_

" **It's a Sith!"** bellowed the Razorboy from the front. " **Everyone attack!"**

And so, it turned into a barroom brawl.

* * *

END OF PART 1


End file.
